why are we writing?
Whats out there we don't know of,
when paused, wondering?
Are we going somewhere?
Its up for us, to at least try.
Hopelessness sits down,
looking out the window of a Metro 70 bus.
Am I even what I appear as?
Unsatisfied with a majority of things
within the notebooks I've filled.
Remembering my mindset of my years before today,
how stupid, immature, embarrassing collective,
I saw myself as I read what I wrote.
All pages before, though, meant something at one time,
with the same hand and heart.
If once lived a dream,
what do you have to sleep for now?
Do you dream again?
4/26
09:39
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